


Kintsugi

by Opheliac



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Recovers, Ficlet, M/M, Post TWS, This is pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4598517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opheliac/pseuds/Opheliac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kintsugi (金継ぎ) (Japanese: golden joinery) is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. As a philosophy it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kintsugi

The ruffling of newspaper at the table across from the bed makes him blink his eyes open lazily, and stare blankly at the cream colored wall, partially covered by a fluttering red curtain for a little moment. The seemingly endless migraine feels better now, and he decides to keep his eyes open, watch the wind play along with the soft fabric, pushing or pulling it. The sound of another page being turned gets him to shift slowly, as a child not wanting to be caught awake and his gaze land at the spot the sounds seem to come from.

Steve is sitting at the table, the open newspaper cover his face. He’s slouched on the small chair, and the sight is actually comic, so Bucky laughs. The newspaper is once again neatly folded by Steve’s gentle hands, and set on the table at the sound. He smiles, and walks to sit beside Bucky on the bed, saying good morning with his eyes before his mouth opens. 

“You’ll have to apologize me, I burned the coffee.” He says, and Bucky snorts. It would be incredible how such a great leader and tactician, such a well trained soldier could burn the coffee for being distracted with small modern wonders, or simply lost in his own mind but Bucky could actually see through it. Steve was Steve at home, the national hero was put away from sight just as his shield the moment he walked into their apartment. And Steve was often clumsy when it came to cooking.  
“We can make another, though.” Bucky murmurs, his tone amused and a cheeky, still sleepy smile crossing his face. The bristle of beard re-growing –after Steve insisted for him to shave- made him raise his left hand and itch absently at his jawline. His right hand, warm and soft and with marks of the bed sheets pressed to it, landed over Steve’s thigh, and circled idle patterns onto it.

“Not really. We’re outta powder.” Steve sighs, and his eyebrows make an angle that say he’s sorry. Truly sorry, he’s feeling bad that he’s burned the coffee and then, Bucky laughs. The sound reverberates through his lungs, shakes his chest gently, and it always gets Steve smiling like a dope at it. He tries to make himself laugh more often then, and in the past four months living with Steve mostly in silence or exchanging very small talk, it’s been finally working out well. 

“Aw, dammit, Steve.” He scolds mockingly, and Steve narrows his eyes but his bright smile betray his feigned expression. “What am I gonna do without coffee now?” Steve approaches slightly, and Bucky dismisses his own smile to sit up, look at the man in front of him in eye level. The smell of his cologne is still at his skin; some thin strands of golden hair are sticking out, and it means he hasn’t combed it yet; his breath smells vaguely as mint, with the slightest hint of something sweeter when Bucky approaches what little Steve didn’t.

“Well,” he starts, and again, it’s comic how Steve Rogers can be entirely different from Captain America given the proper space and dialogue. Right now, his face is dusted with a pink glow that enhances his baby blues, and make something inside Bucky ache. He’s beautiful, he’s always been. He just didn’t know it back then. “We have fresh fruits, I can make a juice. Unless you’d like some milk.” 

Bucky sighs. Steve talks about breakfast foods, makes him laugh out of a burned coffee pot at seven in the morning, and wraps him in his blankets. His face has been pressed to a pillow reeking of Steve Rogers and lemon parfait scented soap for the last hours, while his room is closed and some books he’s bought thrown over his bed. “We can eat fresh fruits, you don’t gotta make a juice.” Bucky takes his hands –both hands, he’s been experimenting with touching Steve in different ways and occasions with his left hand and studying his results- and cups Steve’s face. The strength snarled inside each metal plate, the violence tattooed into his mind and the pain carved into his body makes him feel as if Steve could be easily broken again, like when he used to be five foot four and constantly carrying a combo of two or three diseases around. He knows he won’t, but he feels he could break Steve’s neck with one movement, if he moved his hands in opposite directions fast enough. He’s done it before.

Now, the movement his hands want to make is another, a lot slower. Both metal and skin move together, and as the pressure sensors of his left hand keep the touch precise, his right hand shakes when he traces a fingertip over Steve’s lip. It’s an invitation, and Steve says yes. He always says yes to him. They collapse together on the bed, while Bucky holds Steve by the face and plops his back against the mattress. Steve’s expression is open, and he lets their lips blend, while Bucky lets his hands roam. He touches Steve’s sides, his broad shoulders and abandons his hands at his waist. The kiss seems endless but when it does end, they’re gasping like they’ve been running thirty miles under a midday sun. They gasp for more.

Licking at his lower lip, Bucky tastes strawberries. Strawberries with the littlest hint of whipped cream, which is, after apple pie, Steve’s favorite dessert. When he closes his eyes though, what he tastes is something too unique to be named. Bucky adores it, the taste of Steve’s affection, the taste of having the chance to live another lifetime beside the man he loves, the taste of what this life of theirs mean. He absolutely loves the taste of Steve by morning, kissing him like he means the whole damn world.

“Tell me you didn’t eat all of the strawberries though, or I’m gonna get real mad at you.” It makes him laugh and it’s delightful to know he’s the cause of it. It is part of Bucky’s little prides in this domestic bliss he’s been allowed to live on beside Steve. It could be some sort of crack show, but it’s real, and it’s his. His, no one else can make Steve laugh like this, like they’re still young and the evil in the world is beyond their lazy mornings and talks about breakfast food.

“I didn’t, Buck, I’ve left plenty of strawberries for you.” Steve informs him, and kisses at Bucky’s eyebrow before disappearing through the door and into the hallway. Bucky stays at the bed, and his eyes are now on the ceiling, he thinks of three nights ago. The noises of the wind and the rustling dry leaves outside were enough to wake him, and he couldn’t fall back asleep. Steve’s door was half open and he came in, ducking under the covers and pressing his cold nose to the bare skin of Steve’s neck. He jumped lightly, but wrapped Bucky in his arms and sang him an intelligible but incredibly sweet song until they were both fast asleep. Ever since, he hasn’t slept in his own bedroom.

Bucky thinks of Steve as something he’ll never be. Steve is good by nature, pure at heart, and his motives are always selfless, sometimes even insanely suicidal. Steve thinks with his heart, but he makes decisions with his mind, and it’s something Bucky could never do. His heart and mind no longer communicate, it’s clear by the way one considers snapping Steve’s neck, and the other races when he smiles. They are out of sync, and Bucky is both frustrated and pleased. 

Steve is good. He’s bright smiles, soft kisses, worried glances and hummed out lullabies. He’s the taste of strawberries in the morning, the smell of cologne and golden hair between his metal fingertips that he can almost feel the softness. Steve is golden, pure and liquid gold, that molds his broken and jagged pieces back together. And in every possible way, Bucky is grateful to have him.

Bucky’s feet are warm when they hit the ground and he pads to the kitchen, to see a small breakfast table set hurriedly, with every food considered breakfast appropriate displayed, and Steve fussing around the fridge for something. Bucky places one hand between his shoulder blades and he turns, smiling. The smile is wiped away soon enough, because Bucky kisses it away, memorizes once more how it feels like to kiss Steve like this.

“Could we stay in bed for maybe just a little while once we eat?” He quietly asks, and there is more than just a dust of pink over Steve’s cheeks. He’s getting used with asking things still, and sometimes the question comes out without the question mark. Steve deciphers him, and then he uses more expressions. Steve nods, and cards his hand through Bucky’s, taking him to the table gently. 

The house is already brightening with the first rays of sun, and Bucky scoots closer to Steve. The blush in his cheeks is still present, and when they eat, is one handed to continue to touch each other somehow. He’s light, warmth. He keeps Bucky together through their path to recovery. Their. Bucky feels this is not a mission to complete with excellence, and alone. He’s allowed to flaw and Steve is right there holding him. Grounding him. Keeping him aware of the violence and the pain but helping him control them instead of the other way around. And it’s all he really needs, for now.

“Sure, Buck. Anything for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I need some fluff before I post the gross angst I am working on, I have no better excuse for this.


End file.
